


Peppermint

by feyrelay



Series: All Things Sweet & Nice [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Play, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Little Peter, M/M, Married Couple, Prompt Fill, References to Depression, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17589890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Peter, Tony's husband, is acting a bit off. Tony doesn't quite know what's wrong or what his baby needs, but he's gonna find out.(A re-post of one of my Yule prompt fills; I've decided to host them separately to make them more accessible.)





	Peppermint

**Author's Note:**

> For anon.
> 
> Content: Warning for a married couple miscommunicating, Peter's poor self-image, the barest hint of under-negotiated ageplay

Four years post-Decimation, and three post-Restoration, and Tony still can’t believe things are really alright. Every time he turns around, he expects Peter to be just… gone.

It’s worse in the winter, and at first Tony had thought he’d get through it if he just gave up driving in the snow. He’d almost crashed his Audi the first time it flurried, huge flakes swirling and hurling themselves against the immaculate windshield. It had looked too much like flakes of ash and he’d had to pull over and call Peter, who’d been in class, to talk him down. FRIDAY drove home with Tony’s eyes closed behind his sunglasses.

Now, for the past two years that Tony and Peter have been married, they’ve gone to the Malibu residence each winter. May gets flown out for a week at Christmas and New Year’s, but otherwise Peter tells him that she enjoys not having to cook for Thanksgiving and they live it up in sunny California from Halloween to nearly Easter. They escape back to Manhattan when it warms up and Peter gets plenty of May time in then.

Peter never says a word, but Tony knows he misses the Yuletide season on the east coast, and all that entails. It’s hard to get into hot chocolate and knitting and fires in the fireplace when it’s 65 degrees outside.

Tony makes up for his guilt by making sure their freezer is always stocked with peppermint ice cream. Pete loves candy of all kinds, especially when he’s not quite up to acting his age, and sweet, cooling peppermint ice cream is one of the few things that is both seasonal for the holidays and appropriate to Malibu weather, Tony figures.

It doesn’t hurt that Peter always seems to want to cuddle and take it easy afterwards, either. Win-win.

Holi isn’t until March of next year, and it’s November now, but their neighbors Arya and Bharavi are throwing a colorful Friendsgiving bash up the beach and have invited all of their fellow Malibu-ites. Well, they’ve invited all the ones they can stand, anyway, and that includes Peter who sometimes watches the couple’s little girl, Chetna. The two thirty-somethings are Bollywood-to-Hollywood executive ambassadors who prefer the commute into L.A. over living directly in the city. They’ll be filming this evening’s festivities for a pitch piece about Hindu holiday traditions making it into American celebrations, something that could be big if it’s picked up by the History Channel or another network in the states.

Tony sits through it, sipping scotch, and enjoys the way Peter’s tan forearms flex against the cuffs of his all-white outfit as he carries the giggling five-year-old on his shoulders. They’re dodging the shots of multicolored powder that are flying through the air and temporarily staining the sand of Broad Beach. There’s plenty of pigment to go around, and now that dinner is over their hosts are quick to suggest this much less aggressive, but no less fun, alternative to the traditional after-Thanksgiving football game. Tony’s happy to have been invited to the filming party, if only to see how happy it makes Peter. The colors of the powder are bright enough that none could be mistaken for a cloud of ash.

And, okay, he’d been charmed by how Bharavi had come to the house with a basket full of samosas to ask if they’d come, tripping all over herself to assure him that he and Pete would be there as friends of the family, not as a celebrity draw for the pitch piece, and if they didn’t want to be in the shots used for the promo footage then that was no issue.

Tony was learning to trust again, and he believed her. Besides, Peter loves Chetna like she’s his own.

It still surprises him, even in his old age, how many people like Tony for Tony, genuinely, and not because they want something. Of course, when those same people  ~~like~~   ~~love~~  adore Peter, it’s no surprise at all. Chetna’s no exception. For his part, Tony doesn’t know what Peter wants more: to have a child like her, or to  _be_  a child like her. Whenever Tony comes to collect Pete from babysitting, intending on a romantic walk back down the beach to their place, both Peter  _and_  Chetna look at him like he’s wrecking their world. They always want five or ten more minutes of Jumbo Lego time. Arya and Bharavi both find it hilarious.

“But… don’t you want to socialize?” Peter will often say, smiling up at Tony and nodding at the girl’s parents. Sometimes his voice wavers just a bit and Tony melts, sinks into a chair, and starts in on some small talk.

Today, though, Tony’s snapped out of his thoughts when his young lover squirms onto the beach chair with him, completely unapologetic about the hot pink and acid green powder he’s transferred to Tony’s clothes in the process.

“They got me,” Peter says, and laughs. He presses himself into Tony’s side and eyes his scotch.

“And now  _you_  got  _me_ , you little troublemaker,” Tony replies as he extends his free arm to move the alcoholic drink further away from danger.

“Awww, I’m sorry, daddy. Don’t be mad. I was just thirsty…” Peter tries, pitching his voice a little higher and a little quieter. Peter throws around ‘daddy’ in bed sometimes, but never in public. The shock of it in this setting slides Tony’s voice to an atonal sternness.

“No, sweetheart. You’re twenty, not twenty-one. If we were at home, maybe, but we can’t get Arya in trouble with the law, especially with the immigration climate being what it is,” Tony says firmly.

“Oh, is that the reason, daddy? Okay, then…” Peter says in his ear. Breathes. Starts again with, “I thought it was because that’s a big boy drink, and I’m so very little…”

What the fuck?

“Uh… Pete?” he ventures, sitting up and dislodging the twenty-year-old. Peter’s looking at him intensely from where he now sits on the sand. It’s the look he gets when he wants something but can’t ask for it. Those times, he won’t even admit to it, even if Tony tries to coax whatever it is he wants out of him. Usually, once Tony’s wrestled it out of Peter (or guessed) and made whatever desire come blissfully true and they’ve both orgasmed, that’s when the tears start. They usually don’t stop until morning.

Yeah, they really can’t do this here.

“You wanna go home?” he tries, watching Peter’s eyes. Tony then follows the roll of the other man’s Adam’s apple as Peter swallows and nods.

He holds Peter’s hand as they make their apologies and head back down the beach.

\---

All those times in bed before, with ‘daddy’ and ‘baby’, Tony knows all of that was Peter wanting to be the center of attention, to feel loved, to know that whatever he needed or wanted, Tony would happily give him. It fit neatly with the praise, with the other endearments and encouragements and guidance through new sexual heights and experiences. It gave Peter the framework to be a little selfish, a little bit of a pillow princess (in the best way), and for Tony to be able to do what he does best: give and give and give. And fuck.

This, this thing that hangs between them as they leave footprints in the sand like breadcrumbs from the pockets of lost boys, this is something else entirely.

Once they’re home, Tony sits Peter down at the breakfast bar while he goes to the freezer for peppermint ice cream. The candied red swirl of it mixed against the bright white cream base matches the hot pink still staining Peter’s shirt. Tony scoops it out absently, and misses the way Peter looks down at the floor from his bar stool, wobbles a bit at the height, and pouts.

“Daddy, too high!”

Tony closes his eyes against confusion and slides the bowl toward his partner. He’ll put the rest of the ice cream up in a sec. He loves Peter. He loves Peter. He doesn’t understand this, what’s going on, but he understands that.

“Pete, I love you, baby. You know that I do. But I need a little help here. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t know we’d be going full  _Toddlers and Tiaras_ ,” is what he says, hands tight on the edge of the counter. He turns and puts away the carton just for something to do.

Peter’s voice is still small when he says, “It’s not- Don’t make fun of me!”

“I’m not, sweetie; I just don’t understand what you need…” Tony mutters, grabbing the bottle of scotch from the alcohol cabinet.

Peter’s whine stops him from pouring.

“No! No big boy drinks! And no yucky ice cream!”

Tony snaps and puts the scotch back in the cabinet, and his empty glass back in another. Then he turns around and picks up Peter’s ice cream, bowl and spoon and all, and dumps them in the trash can. They have more dishes than they know what to do with anyway. The shattering of the china against the metal bottom of the can, cushioned only slightly by the brand-new trash bag, feels bad and good at the same time. Of course, it swiftly turns 100% bad when Peter starts crying fat tears at the jarring sound.

Tony just looks at him, watches the water track down his love’s face, watches the way the other man hugs his arms around himself and clearly wants down off the stool, a feat which he could easily accomplish himself with his long graceful legs, and yet. It’s like the poor thing is paralyzed.

Tony has never felt more like Howard Stark than in that moment. It burns far worse than the scotch would have and sobers him up instead of making him drunk.

“I’m sorry, Pete, I’m not mad at you. I just don’t know what to do, okay, but let’s get you down first, though…” he soothes, and ‘helps’ Peter off the stool and over to the couch. He wraps him up in the throw blanket, the one Pete loves best, and then goes to the kitchen for two wet rags, one cold and one hot. Tony puts the cold compress over Peter’s closed eyes to help calm both his emotions and his teary eyes.

With the warm rag, he wipes gently at Peter’s face and then washes the man’s sandy feet.

“Pete, baby, I’m gonna set the timer on my phone for two minutes. I need you to use your words and be calm for two whole minutes and then you can act however you want, okay? We can do whatever you want. I just need to get some stuff straight first. Can you manage two minutes?” Tony pleads when he’s done.

He takes the cold compress off Peter’s eyes and waits for eye contact and a shaky nod. Tony sets the timer and uses the cold rag to get the sand off his own feet while he listens, determined not to interrupt his husband.

“Tell me what’s going on, please,” he starts, and then shuts up.

The first thing Peter guts out is, “Peppermint makes me fucking sick, Tony.”

Which, okay. Huh.

Apparently, spiders are very sensitive to it in essential oil format, and it’s even sometimes used as a natural pesticide. Since the bite, Peter can’t eat anything peppermint without a stomachache. And he misses winters in Queens, he tells Tony. And, yes, he loves Malibu and he loves their friends there, but you know, when he and Tony started this thing, Peter was seventeen and when they got married he was eighteen and he tried so so so hard to be mature. He wanted to be the best husband ever, he says; he wanted to deserve Tony and be a true partner to him. He’d gone to therapy, especially after getting ‘dusted’ by Thanos, and he tries to pull his own emotional weight and be sensitive to Tony’s own issues and not just be the twinky, gold-digging brat that the media portrays him as. Peter goes on and on, and it just pours out of him. Tony just listens.

The timer goes off, and Peter’s eyes go wide but he pushes through and continues, words tripping over each other and sentences running like mascara mixed with tears.

“You know, I enjoy babysitting for Chetna so much because she’s still so full of wonder and so carefree and it’s infectious. But, even then, I still can’t let go because of course I’m responsible for her care when I’m over there. She inspires this want in me, to let my worries and responsibilities go, but it’s at the most inopportune time because I have to be the adult. And I, I, I- I don’t want to be self-absorbed! I don’t want to put you out because you’re the love of my life and brilliant and kind and perfect and you could have  _anybody_  but you chose me, and when I’m done babysitting you come and walk me home and it’s so sweet and romantic and I love how we fuck when we get back, but there’s still this little part of me that wants you to help me splash around in the bath and tuck me in and I don’t know, okay?! I don’t know where it comes from or if it’s fucked up, but sometimes I don’t  _wanna_  care what you want and I don’t  _wanna_  have to say what I want, I just want you to  _decide for me_  and I want you to  _decide right_  because I hate fucking peppermint ice cream and I  _don’t want_ to keep pretending anymore!”

Tony is totally fucking floored. And scared. He wasn’t this scared in the cave, or on Titan. He’s fucking terrified because he doesn’t know exactly what Peter means by ‘pretending’. He just knows the word ‘pretend’ got thrown around a lot at the end, with Pepper, and he can’t lose Peter too. Not again.

“What do you feel responsible for ‘pretending’ about, sweetheart. I really need to know, okay?”

Peter takes a deep breath and clocks the fear in Tony’s eyes. He looks down at his hands, flexes them, watches as Tony mirrors the movement and favors his left arm. Fuck.

“It’s, it’s not like that. I love you, and I always will. You’re it for me, but I always knew that maybe you’d start to get tired of me as I got into my twenties. That you’d get bored of the whole  _protégé_ thing, and how I just don’t have the life experience or the genius that you do. And, I’m not a hero like you. Spider-Man isn’t like Iron Man, and now, I’m not even  _in_ Queens half the year,” Peter reasons, voice rising and tears spilling over once more.

“Peter, babe, we made vows, you’re it for me, too-” Tony cuts in desperately, but Peter is perhaps past calming at this point.

“No! I see the way you look at me when we fly out here in the fall…” Peter interrupts and then it’s like the damn is truly breaking because his voice gets louder and louder, peppered with hiccups, as he continues to make his point.

“And you try so hard to make me happy, and clearly I’m not doing a good enough job being happy and I don’t know why, okay?” Peter rants. “I don’t know why I can’t get out of bed sometimes, but I do know I can’t keep pretending everything is okay with me. Even if it stresses you out! Even if it makes you feel guilty! I don’t want to pretend to be strong anymore or like I know what I’m doing because I’m BAD, I’m WEAK, I’m STUPID and SELFISH, and I want you to just take care of it, or at least set yourself free! If you’re too noble, if you’re not gonna leave me, then, then, then, WHY DON’T YOU FIX ME? That’s what you do, you fix stuff, and I, I, I don’t wanna be  _broken_  anymore! I don’t want to break you, too! Christ, I’m so messed up, I can’t even enjoy the holidays like a fucking normal person-”

 _Alright, that’s it_ , Tony thinks. His fear has cleared because now. Now he has a task. A puzzle.

Peter gasps as Tony picks him up, throw blanket and all, and carries him into the bedroom. Pete is wrapped up like a burrito, or actually more like a taquito due to his willowy build, and Tony dumps his wrapped-up husband on the bed. He kneels in front of Peter.

“You-” Tony says as he taps a finger hard against the first button of Peter’s once-white shirt, “are not bad. You’re the best, most wonderful, goodest boy there ever was.” He unbuttons the button and then moves his fingers to the next one before blowing a raspberry on the side of Peter’s face, right at the corner of his jaw, and whispering in the kid’s ear, “I promise.”

Peter just watches, eyes bright.

“You are also not weak. Physically, you could lift our car in one hand. Mentally, you survived literally ‘running the Infinity Gauntlet’, as it were. And emotionally, Peter, you are the brightest star in the black sky of this old man’s life. I would have given up a long time ago if it weren’t for you. You always help others, and consider their needs, apparently to your own great detriment.”

Peter looks down at his lap, but Tony quickly unbuttons the next button and then lifts Peter’s chin to level their eyes. “You know I’m right, Peter.”

He nods jerkily.

“You’re certainly not stupid,” Tony barrels on. “You and I have created some pretty fucking awesome science together, and you built that web fluid by yourself. The touch-sensitive adhesive? The reverse-osmosis water filter powered by arc technology? Those were all you, baby boy. You’re the one that got into MIT early and accelerated your schedule. All I did was pay.”

Peter tries to do the last few buttons himself, but Tony lightly slaps his hand away and continues stripping off the shirt.

“As far as selfish, I believe we just covered how you help others a little too much. You put too much pressure on yourself, sweetheart. You’ve saved how many lives, and it’s still not enough? You saved me, for sure. You take care of me, and I thought you were finally comfortable with me taking care of you. But, sweetie, you gotta be able to ask me for what you want, and tell me what you don’t want. I’ve been poisoning you with ice cream and thinking I was showing you love this whole time, and that’s not okay.”

Peter sighs, clearly knowing that Tony is right. “Listen, I know, okay, and I’m sorry I sprung all this Daddy shit on you without negotiating it…”

“It’s alright. I was surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know if you meant it sexually or not, and didn’t want to screw things up,” Tony explains, tossing the shirt away and planting a kiss on his husband’s forehead.

Peter nods tiredly, and adds, “I don’t know what I really want, either. Lord knows you dominate me anyway, it’s not really about that, but just I sometimes want to know that I can hand over the reins and if I want to have a breakdown over there being crusts on my sandwiches, I can, you know?”

Tony peers at him as Peter shucks off his pants, underwear, and socks. “Did you throw tantrums like that as a kid? ‘Cause I threw plenty, mostly to nannies and other staff, but still. Got it out of my system.”

Peter shrugs and thinks out loud, “Maybe when I was real, real little? But after my parents died, I wanted to be on my best behavior. I thought if I was perfect, God would favor me, and send them back.”

Tony turns toward the massive closet to remove his tie, or at least that’s what he hopes it looks like as he fumbles with the silk. He steals a moment to shut his eyes and sob completely silently, secondhand grief bubbling up somewhere in his chest. Fuck fate and fuck god and fuck the world for that one.

He turns back after hanging up his tie, which was mercifully spared Peter’s onslaught of transferred color. Tony strips out of his shirt too, which was the only item really affected by the Holi powder. He keeps his slacks and undershirt on, but ditches the belt. Peter watches him take it off.

“I’m gonna draw you a hot bath, okay, sweetheart? You’ve got pink, green, and teal in your hair.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, wiggling his toes. “I don’t need help though. I’m feeling painfully adultish now.”

“Got it.”

\---

Tony lets Peter have his alone time, and cranks the air conditioning until the house starts to edge toward freezing. He figures the house runs on an arc reactor, so it can’t be that bad for the environment. Then he hauls the queen-sized mattress from the guest bedroom into the living room, digs out throws and quilts and a fluffy extra duvet, and makes a blanket fort around the mattress. He even uses the flannel sheets with candy canes and gumdrops all over them (a bizarre gift from Steve and Barnes last year). Then Tony lights a roaring fire in the fireplace, one that will last. By the time he’s done, Peter’s watching from the doorway, wrapped up in Tony’s bathrobe.

Tony gets to his feet, knees popping, and says, “You know, you must have your own robe around here somewhere, Mr. Parker.”

Peter looks at him in confusion, head jerking back and mouth twisting. He’d taken Tony’s last name when they got married.

Tony thinks,  _Gotcha_. “What, kid, got a frog in your mouth?”

“Uh… no?” Peter says, eyebrows climbing. Tony never calls him ‘kid’ anymore.

Tony hums, waiting for his lover to catch on. He wants to give him another hint, so he says, “What then? You worried about your Spanish quiz? It’s almost Christmas break; they’ll go easy.”

The penny drops.

Peter goes wide-eyed before he sputters, “Oh, but Mr. Stark, sir, I didn’t study for this quiz…”

Tony smirks, remembering in a flash of sense memory the days of “Mr. Stark” and “sir” and all that. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Hmmm, my Spanish ain’t great, but it’s a lot like Italian. Why don’t we watch a movie in Spanish on the big TV while I get some work done, and if I miss anything, you can explain it after, okay? It’ll give you some comprehension practice.”

“Oh, uh, okay, Mr. Stark. What movie should we watch?” Peter says blushing.

“Well, what’s your quiz about, kid?” he says, getting into the improv.

Peter hums, looking around the room for inspiration. “Uh, our upcoming Christmas vacations? Like, words to do with traveling and relationships and stuff like that?”

Okay, Tony can work with that. “Well, it should be something I’ve seen obviously, so I can make sure you don’t cheat when you explain it to me,” he needles. “Ah, I’ve got just the thing.”

And that’s how his little bunny ends up ensconced in the pillow-and-blanket den watching  _Y Tu Mamá También_ , while Tony looks up confectionary recipes online and orders ingredients via drone courier.

The quilts that he’s strung up block Peter’s view of the kitchen, and he turns the volume up, saying “I’m gonna work at the breakfast bar, wanna be able to hear it.” Peter just nods, carefully following the rapid Spanish of the movie. It’s almost as if he really believes he’ll be quizzed, and Tony melts a little inside.

He’s such a good boy.

While the rest of the movie plays out, Tony whips the hastily-delivered ingredients into shape, nipping down to the lab for a few chemical components.

By the time things are ready to set and cool, the scene with the threesome is about to begin and Tony takes great pleasure in crawling into the blanket fort from the back (knees protesting), and settling down next to Peter, who jumps. He makes sure to press as much of his body up against his husband’s as he can, while maintaining that air of aloofness he’d had with Peter back when the boy had really been sixteen, and not his current twenty.

He watches Peter’s Adam’s apple bob in the glow of the TV and the fire. The kid swallows heavily as Diego Luna and Gael García Bernal share a tension-laden kiss.

He tilts his head toward the screen as he speaks, “Wish you’d told me about this Spanish quiz earlier, we could have done that.”

Peter turns to him, startled to find him so close, and breathes a shocked little, “What?”

Tony smirks again, noticing how gone Peter is for their little roleplay. “Not kissing, obviously; I meant we could have taken a quick trip to Mexico and gotten you immersed.”

“Oh…” Peter considers. He explains, “It’s not that big of a deal, Mr. Stark, it’s just an oral exam…”

Tony lets his eyes flick to Peter’s lap, where half an erection is making itself known; the bathrobe has gone off-kilter and is showing a high gap along the crease of Peter’s leg. “We can practice that too.”

Peter gasps and covers himself so quickly that he reminds Tony of a scandalized Victorian lady. “Oh my god, sir, I’m so sorry!”

“You really shouldn’t be,” Tony growls, and goes in for the kiss, mouth angled something wolfish.

Peter moans into his mouth, getting carried away fast before he comes to a stand-still abruptly. The kiss grinds to a halt as he pulls back, exasperated.

“Is that peppermint flavoring on your tongue?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Nope!” Tony chirps, a little smug. He turns off the movie, wanting Peter to skip the sad ending.

“Well, then what is it?” Peter returns, eyes narrowing in a way that Tony knows he’s meant to find a little threatening but is mostly just cute.

“A special treat for my baby bunny,” Tony coos, sadistically enjoying Peter’s rising confusion. He knows it’ll all end in sweetness, and that’s what matters. “My little Peter Rabbit…” he teases, just to watch the pink blush rise in his husband’s face. He takes the opportunity to pull at the belt of Peter’s robe.

“What did you do?” Peter breathes. He sounds like he’s trying not to pant in the face of having Tony’s full attention like this. Tony figures the bath and the pillow-fort and the movie have got him halfway to pliant as it is.

Tony shrugs, plays it all off. “Just texted Alton Brown to find out what I could combine like a mad scientist to make a non-toxic peppermint taste-alike for you. No biggie.”

Alarmingly, Peter’s voice is a little wet around the edges as he asks, “You did that for me?”

Tony fixes it by kissing him again and pressing him back into the duvet, not caring if the whole damn blanket-fort collapses on top of them. The fire’s getting real low. “Of course, Peter; daddy loves you.”

Not a one of the Willy Wonka’d candy canes or flavor-swirled sugar cookies gets eaten until morning.

They have better things to do.


End file.
